


Death of a Bachelorette

by BlueEyesBlueSkies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fun, Light BDSM, Smut, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyesBlueSkies/pseuds/BlueEyesBlueSkies
Summary: A Victory Ball; a muggle bar; a little bit rough; a whole lot of sexy; and a whirlwind of fun.This is a four-part mini-fic inspired by the song Death of a Bachelor. There will be fluff. There will be smut. There will be laughs. And there will be guest appearances by a whole host of supporting characters!





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGreyWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGreyWrites/gifts).



> My first ever attempt at Lumione! Without LadyGreyWrites this story would never have become public. Parts 1 and 2 out today, parts 3 and 4 in the next few weeks!
> 
> Thank you for giving this a try! Enjoy!

Hermione scanned the parchment one last time in disgust before tossing it into the flames with a sick twist of amusement. 

Another bloody Victory Ball, and based on the wording Minerva had included, it was more than just _strongly encouraged_ that she attend. Why, according to the Headmistress, it was of ‘paramount importance’ that the new Muggle Studies Professor attend. 

Bah! As if she didn’t have more important things to do than attend yet another ball celebrating the fall of the Dark Lord and the triumph of the light.

Her eyes darted towards her drab, empty little closet and all of the drab, doughty little dresses she knew resided within. She could wear the buttoned-up black number again, the one she wore to the ball only last week, surely? 

Or perhaps the purple one, with the long sleeves and dropped waist, from a few weeks before that?

She sighed heavily and padded in the direction of her kitchen. 

Dear old _Ronald_ said the purple made her look like something out of those prairie books his father read sometimes. 

She sighed once more at the thought of Ronald.

There was a romance that had turned sour long, _long_ before she finally had the courage to open her bloody eyeballs and acknowledge the truth before her. Not that things were all that sparkling to begin with, but surely, she should have seen the truth much sooner than several weeks prior at the purple-dress ball.

She did not, even a little bit, have any romantic affection for Ronald.

Not one iota.

Not one ounce.

Not _one_.

It made her grimace when he touched her; it made her sigh in annoyance when he begged for a kiss; it made her plain old sad when he found his release and she had to find a good vibrator and ten minutes of alone time in order to find hers. 

She had watched him, standing on the perimeter in her purple sack of a dress, and realized as he danced with none other than Luna bloody Lovegood that he looked happier than she’d seen him in such a long time.

Maybe even _ever_.

“I don’t love him. I don’t even really _like_ him all that much.” She couldn’t help mumbling. 

The truths had just popped out unbidden as she had watched his face flush and Luna actually blush in response.

“I know,” Ginny had said quietly, sliding an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “He doesn’t love you, either,” she’d said. “How about setting him free, yeah?”

She hadn’t hesitated a moment, and simply marched in the direction of the dance floor, intend on freeing Ronald from the loveless relationship she’d confined him to.

It would have gone swimmingly, and they both could have parted happy as clams, if he hadn’t let his stupid, childish, bloody fucking _pride_ get in the way. 

He’d looked sheepishly around the dance floor, took in the sight of the reporters avidly hanging on every last word, and then _loudly and without qualms_ announced to the entire Wizarding World that he couldn’t wait to be rid of a cold, dry fish like her.

He actually compared her to cod.

“Fucking _Weasley_ ,” she grumbled savagely as she dug into her takeout container and eyed her bedroom door once more.

Well, she’d show him. She’d show them all.

Hermione Jean Granger might be many things- a know it all, a nuisance, a naïve little _mudblood_.

But she was not a _cod_.

~*~

Hermione swallowed thickly as her eyes swept up and down the mirror one last time while she twisted and turned. “You don’t think it is too much?”

She narrowed her eyes as Harry mumbled, “quite the opposite” while Ginny elbowed him roughly in the ribs.

Hermione felt a savage delight when she heard him cough in response. 

“It is _perfect_ and don’t you doubt it for one tiny second, Hermione.” She met Ginny’s reflection in the mirror and pulled her shoulders back tight and her chin up high.

Right then. 

_Right._

She could do this. 

She followed the future Potters-to-be over to the floo, pausing to give Crooks a scratch behind the ear as she slipped on the delicate yellow silk heels she’d purchased and charmed to perfectly match her gown. 

Well, gown was a rather generous description. 

It was a- well, a slinky little yellow silk number with a swooping back and a plunging neckline and a slit clear up to her thigh. It was about the furthest one could get from a bloody sack.

It was about the furthest one could get from _doughty_ , too.

In an effort to firmly keep herself on the right side of the slutty versus sexy line she’d opted for a classic French twist in her hair, with her curls charmed to artfully tumble over one shoulder. 

Her makeup was simple, her hair was behaving, and for the first time since the ball with Viktor Krum she was filled with a heady anticipation that finally, _finally_ , she was going to garner the _right_ kind of attention at one of these functions.

She stepped out of the floo behind the future Potters and directly into the gaping, stunned face of Ronald _bloody_ Weasley.

Luna, bless her, just gave Hermione a dreamy smile as she twined her fingers through Ronald’s hair, “even the wifflegraff’s think you are lovely this evening, Hermione,” she said wistfully to somewhere over Hermione’s left shoulder.

“Um, thank you, Luna,” she coughed back a laugh.

“You look like a _girl_.” 

Her eyes narrowed as she swept past his stunned expression. 

That was _not_ the kind of attention she’d exactly had in mind.

~*~

Lucius preened as he straightened his robes and combed his hair one last time. He had spent the better part of the afternoon practicing the sneer he would grace Narcissa with if she strode in with one of her new paramours, all haughty contempt and cold beauty.

Her paramours could keep her. Their divorce was final, and he was happy to be rid of her. The fall of their marriage coinciding with the fall of their ‘Lord’ mattered naught to him. 

He was a Malfoy. He would always rise above, with dignity, grace, and disdain.

He practiced his sneer once last time, allowing it to effortlessly fall back into an unemotional smirk. He wordlessly flicked his wrist and summoned his cane as he strolled in the direction of his floo. 

He was as ready as he would ever be.

~*~

The gown might have been a tad bit too much for the Wizarding World to handle. Or rather, its _wizards_.

She couldn’t escape the wandering hands of Blaise Zabini or the blushing stammers of dear Neville fast enough as she bolted towards the open bar. 

Thank the heavens the bars were always open at this type of thing. 

She ordered a tumbler of scotch on the rocks, two fingers, and as she brought it to her parched lips she slunk off to mope in the corner of the ballroom. Perhaps she could hide behind a potted fern or two, toss back a few tumblers, and pass enough time where it would be appropriate for her to leave?

That had been the plan, anyway. She was successful with tumbler one, and had only had to make passing conversation with another wallflower before she’d been forced from her hiding place to refill her glass. 

Hermione tapped on the bar top as she anxiously waited for the return of her courage until she had the unsettling sensation of being watched. A quick glance over her shoulder, and she found herself slamming into the curious glance of none other than one Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, where he rested his arm and cane casually on a cabaret table.

The air left her lungs in a literal rush, and she had the dizzying thought that she’d never, _ever_ seen him look quite so handsome.

Wait…

When had she _ever_ thought him handsome in the first place?!

She vaguely registered over the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears the sound of a “madame! Your drink!”, and with not even a backward glance she swiped up the glassware and cradled it to her chest.

She stood there, frozen, not even daring to breathe, as she basked in the gaze of Lucius Malfoy.

It was intoxicating. 

It was mystifying. 

It was _terrifying_ and she was nearly paralyzed with fear until he slowly, ever so slowly, allowed a full smirk to tug those luscious lips, as he raised his glass high in front, tipped it slightly in her direction, and nodded with a flick of his head. 

Dear, sweet mother of Merlin. He was saluting her.

His eyes didn’t break with hers for even a moment as he took a long sip of his drink. _Whiskey, several fingers, on the rocks_ , she noted dimly.

She was trapped, unable to move, unable to _breathe_ until a commotion at the front of the ballroom seemed to draw his attention. 

His attention, and his ire, she realized, as she watched his back straighten, his fingers clench white, and his mask of scorn fall firmly into place, that patented Malfoy sneer curling his lips once more.

She felt her heart actually _clench_ at the sight. 

At the loss.

She couldn’t help but look to see what had caused the transformation, and the sight literally had her pausing mid-sip.

Narcissa Malfoy, sparkling like a diamond, was escorted on the arm of none other than one Charles Weasley.

Oh dear.

She didn’t even pause to think. She just sucked in a deep breath, lifted her chin, and marched with determination in his direction, until she found herself laying a hand on his tight forearm where it rested next to his cane on the table. 

Goodness, tight was an understatement. The man was rock solid.

He was _steel_.

She opened her mouth as her eyes swept up to meet his stunned face.

Oh, dear. His eyes were steel, too.

Well, nothing for it now. She was already committed.

Committed to what?

Good heavens, she was casually touching Lucius bloody Malfoy in the middle of a bloody ball.

What in Hades was she thinking? What was she doing?

What was she going to _say_?

She started to panic as her eyes swept over his cursedly handsome face, and she watched in alarm as his mask fell firmly back into place and his forearm impossibly tightened further. Surely, he would say something? Rescue her from this _hell_ she found herself in?

One cool eyebrow lifted pointedly, and she actually felt ill.

Since when was Lucius Malfoy known for rescuing damsels in distress? 

Since when did she think of herself as a damsel?

Since when did she have nothing to _say_?

She mustered up all her courage and her best smile and opened her mouth, praying that her words and her wit wouldn’t fail her. “I wouldn’t worry, Mister Malfoy. I’m sure if you just snap your fingers, in less than a week she’ll come running back. I have it on good authority the Weasley’s aren’t really all that.. well-endowed, if you know what I mean.”

Oh.

Oh _no_.

_Oh no!!_

Nothing to say and _that_ was what she came up with? She shut her eyes tight in shame, before the most delightful sound she’d ever heard swept up to her ears, into her body and straight down to curl her very toes.

She’d made him _laugh_. An honest, true, unguarded, bellowing _laugh_.

Not a chuckle. Not a cough. Not even a feigned polite ha-ha of amusement.

A delicious, rumbling, full of joy _laugh_.

She opened her eyes to behold the sight, and found herself smiling like a fool and joining right on in with a giggle at the _warmth_ on his face and the lightness in his eyes, not a sneer or scowl in sight.

The sight of the fine lines crinkling around his eyes stole what was left of her breath, as she kept her hand on his arm and laughed and laughed, for once not caring one whit for the thoughts of the wizards and witches around her.

They laughed, and as she wiped a tear from her eye she found herself snared in his welcoming, still unguarded gaze. “I must say, Miss Granger, you are a vision this evening.”

She flushed, literally _flushed_ , with pleasure as her shy gaze dropped to his chest. “Thank you, Mister Malfoy.” 

Who on earth was that breathy creature replying to him with a literal _gush_?

“Please, call me Lucius.” 

It was unfair, really. How sensual a name could be. How it could prompt any number of erotic images. “Lucius,” she breathed, lifting her eyes back to his.

Oh.

Oh dear.

His face was now less open, but no less warm, and the look he was giving her made her head spin and her mind race and her heart nearly beat out of her chest. “A muggle creation, I presume?”

What?

She followed his eyes as they trailed from the curls on her shoulder, down over her- oh my goodness, her _protruding nipples_ , all the way to the painted toes of her feet.

She didn’t miss the pause on her nipples the second time, and felt herself blush hotly in embarrassment.

Embarrassment, and arousal, too. 

What in Hades was going on with her nipples? And why wasn’t she covering them? Why was she just standing there, hand on his arm, other greedily clutching her glass, staring now at his chest, too?

She lifted her eyes and met his heated stare and thought she could spend all night wrapped up in that gaze until yet another eyebrow lift made her halt in alarm. 

He’d said something, and she’d just been her gaping like a bloody fish, a bloody _cod_ , in response. “Yes, I’m a muggle.”

Oh sweet fucking Merlin.

Fuckity fuck fuck _fuck_. 

His lips unfurled in a smirk, though it was more the smile of a shark than a snake, and she had the distinct feeling that after she burst into flames of embarrassment he might eat what was left. “I meant the _dress_ , my _dear_ Miss Granger.” 

What in the name of Merlin was wrong with her? “That’s muggle, too, yes. Indeed. Muggle dress. Muggle shoes. Muggle-born witch. Not very comfortable, if I’m being honest. The dress, I mean. Shoes, too, now that I think about it. Do you know, I much prefer comfy pants and a good book for my wild Saturday nights. Not much beats a good flannel or cotton yoga pant. Or a good book. Do you have a favorite? I’m sure you do. I’d heard from Draco you enjoy a good—”

“Miss Granger. Are you asking me if I have a favorite pant? Or are you asking my favorite read? Or is there something else, _good_ , you think I enjoy?”

The bolt of lust that shot down her legs made her nearly fall into him, and she felt hot and cold and anxious and excited and what on earth was she doing? She was leaning into him, her lips her pursing of their own volition, her eyes were starting to dim, and she took in his startled look not one moment too soon when she realized she was _leaning into kiss Lucius Malfoy in the middle of a bloody ball!_

“I need the loo!” She nearly screamed, scrambling back in alarm. “Loo, now, thank you, uh, goodnight!”

She felt hot tears sting her heated cheeks as she raced in the direction of the floo, sparing not a glance back in his direction. 

She would never, ever, _ever_ attend a bloody fucking Victory Ball ever again.


	2. Part II

As the flames danced in the hearth, Lucius couldn’t help ruminating on the disastrous turn his life had taken. Oh, the fall of the Dark Lord wasn’t all that surprising, and he’d long hitched his wagon to the Order when it became apparent that’s the way the wind was blowing. In truth, the muggle-hatred nonsense he used to spew never mattered much to him beyond a surface-level discrimination, no matter what the insipid little Miss Granger believed. While he took delight in reigning terror over muggle-borns, it wasn’t the fact that they were of _muggle_ origin that caused such enjoyment. 

It was the _power_ , the _strength_ , the _knowledge_ that he alone was above and all others were below. Politics were the means to the end for a Malfoy, and he was not above shifting loyalties to stay astride the shifting winds.

Now, though, he had to wonder whether perhaps he had been a bit too… _fluid_. 

He’d drawn the correct conclusions, of course. Any wizard worth half his magic saw insanity for what it was, and he could not be faulted for his loyalty to himself and his family above all others.

No, it wasn’t the betrayal of the Dark Lord that led to his lonely ponderings in an empty mansion with none but the house elves to greet him.

It was his betrayal to _her_. 

Narcissa had always wanted to be coddled and kept, and he had, quite incorrectly, assumed that by supporting her various expenditures and endeavors he would remain in her good graces. As Draco had impertinently informed him when his mother served him the divorce papers, where Cissy was concerned, he, Lucius Malfoy, was a naïve fool. 

He could live without Narcissa, that was not a problem in the least. He had any number of willing, and sometimes slightly less willing, paramours to warm his chambers in the evenings. He was never one to let a woman define him, and certainly was never one to allow the lesser sex to take hold of his life and swing it from the rafters.

Until _her_.

It was unbecoming, this embarrassment he felt. 

Even when Cissa left the marriage it hadn’t left him quite so shaken. Even with the very public nature of it, it hadn’t truly galled him. She’d flaunted her new paramour at the Victory Ball right under his nose, the little twat’s red hair making him want to toss more than a few _Crucio’s_ around the ballroom. 

Maybe even a few _Aveda's_ , just for good measure. Just to regain some semblance of control.

He, Lucius Malfoy, had been left unceremoniously for none other than a bloody _Weasley_.

And _still_ , he had risen above, with barely more than a lifted brow and a sneer.

No, not even being left for a _Weasley_ had left him quite so shaken. Nothing had ever rattled his life to quite this extent, and he was startled to admit he was actually somewhat _enjoying_ the merry little ride she was dragging him down on his way to _hell_.

He, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, was twisted upside down and inside out, fumbling and bumbling like the poor sods of his youth, over a _girl_.

A _Mudblood_.

A _Granger_.

It was uncivilized.

It was uncouth.

It was unconscionable.

It was – he sighed, tossing back the remainder of the whiskey in his tumbler. 

It was his _life_.

He felt his wards shift and recognized his son’s presence, feeling him sweep through the manor in search of him. Lucius shut his eyes, relishing one more moment of peaceful silence before the squawking began.

“Father!” Draco shrieked from the doorway, strolling into the library in a huff. “What on-“ his son sputtered, and Lucius found he couldn’t be bothered to even open his eyes, though he was quite certain the look on his son’s face was worth every last Galleon in his bloody vault. 

“Merlin, father, are you…” A long pause, and his son actually _gasped_. “Are you wearing flannel?” 

Lucius shrugged, fighting back the smirk that was threatening to tug his lips, cracking an eye open to taken in the shocked expression on his son’s handsome face. 

According to the delectable Miss Granger, if indoor pants weren’t comfortable then they weren’t worth wearing to begin with. Lucius was ashamed to admit he’d rushed home and purchased several sets in the fabrics she’d suggested immediately following that disastrous Victory Ball. He had flannel, cotton, silks, some sort of velvet material-

“ _Flannel pants_ , Father. Truly? You are supposed to meet me and the fellows for drinks and you are wearing _flannel pants_. Flannel pants!”

Oh, Merlin. He had forgotten ‘drinks with the fellows’, as Draco termed it. 

His son clucked at him, and before he could fully open both eyes he was unceremoniously pulled off of the chaise and dragged across the Persian rug. He debated struggling against the treatment, before deciding that this was the most excitement he’d had in months, excepting the damned Victory Ball, so perhaps he’d play along, even though giving up control grated against every last fiber of his being.

He’d give it up, though, if it meant his son would stop his incessant need to continue mumbling _flannel pants_ to himself. 

Or if it meant the distracting Miss Granger would finally succumb to his advances.

Yes, he would certainly give up control for one little tumble with the delightful Miss Granger. For now.

He had a truly harrowing thought as Draco drug him towards the floo in the entry hall. What if just one tumble with the delicious Miss Granger was not enough?

“Where are we going, son?” He inflicted just the right amount of disdainful boredom, attempting nonchalance.

That sneer was the best gift his father ever bestowed upon him.

The glare Draco shot him was a little lighter than usual what with the heavy concern tugging his son’s pale face. Who knew fabrics could be so distressing? “Out, Father. We are getting dressed, and we are going _out_.”

He wondered whether Miss Granger felt flannel was appropriate outside of one’s manor.

~*~

Lucius tugged at the ridiculous ensemble, turning once more to take in his appearance.

He looked an old, utter _fool_.

 _He_. Lucius _bloody_ Malfoy.

Looked _old_.

And like he was bloody _trying_.

They had dressed him in soft, black wool trousers (Miss Granger would approve, they truly were quite comfortable), socks that had some sort of striped print, and black dress shoes. Those, he could find no fault with. In fact, he would be adding several pairs of those socks to his elaborate collection.

He made a mental note to inquire with his associates as to the opportunity to infuse magic into socks. My, wouldn’t that be quite the business venture?

The socks, certainly, were the not the issue, and with a flick he waved the thought. No, it was the top of the ensemble that had him shooting an icy glare once more to the clucking peacocks behind him.

Specifically, it was his _hair_.

His eyes swept the looking glass. He had on a dove grey dress shirt with a soft, emerald cashmere sweater over it, and his lovely long locks were pulled back in a… what had the Zabini boy called it? 

A _man bun._

Well, a man _tail_. Lucius Malfoy did not wear _buns_.

He looked ridiculous, and as if he were trying to appear a good twenty-five years his junior. They wouldn’t even allow him to wear his _robes_.

It was uncivilized.

It was uncouth.

It was-

“Muggles don’t wear robes, Father, you would look positively ridiculous,” his son crowed, while Severus transfigured his clothing. 

Based on the nattering of the young fools behind him, he was apparently cutting the figure of a _Don Juan_ , whatever that meant. Even Severus was nodding, his thin lips tipped up in a smirk. 

He had the spiteful thought that he should have left sniveling Severus to bleed to death on the shrieking shack floor.

Lucius sighed heavily.

Perhaps this was exactly what he needed. A night out on the town, and a lovely young lady or two to slide between the silk sheets once he returned home. Perhaps, finally, he would finally be able to remove the illustrious Miss Granger from his mind for good.

He followed the gentlemen with a crack to his London townhouse. 

~*~

Hermione tossed another quip back at Ginny as she pushed her way to the bar. She had been unceremoniously plucked from her reading and dragged out with Ginny’s teammates for a ‘girls night out’, as Ginny had loudly proclaimed that it had been far, far too long since Hermione had last… been intimate, with someone. 

Hermione had blushed crimson and scoffed, but the truth burned heavy and she barely even protested as she was ushered out of her seat. 

Contrary to Ginny’s proclamation that it had been months since Hermione had been with a wizard who knew his way around the bedroom, in truth, it had been _years_. 

If she were being honest with herself, she may possibly have _never_ been with a wizard who _actually_ knew his way around the bedroom. 

And while “Felix in Accounting” served quite nicely as an excuse whenever Ginny tried to shove her into the dating pool before, he was not, as it turns out, actually _real_.

Her favorite, most precious vibrator? Yes, Felix was he. 

An actual, real-life wizard? 

_Ahem_ , no. No, Felix was not.

Hermione sent Felix the vibrator one long, wanting glance before she let Ginny hustle her into her closet and then out the door in an outfit that would make her mother and father weep, were they ever to remember her.

Black suede pumps, with tight black jeans, and a black lace halter on top, her entire back open and left bare.

If this didn’t secure a real wizard, or _man_ , really, as she was past the point of being picky, in place of Felix, Hermione was certain _nothing_ would.

And if it helped remove from her dreams thoughts of long silky blonde locks, piercing grey eyes, graceful broad hands, and a towering arrogance that was more attractive than it ever had the right to be? Well.

That was just a bonus.

~*~

A _muggle bar_. He, Lucius Malfoy, was going to a _muggle bar_. To _‘pick up chicks’_. 

This fact pinged around his head, casting him in some sort of daze until with a start he realized he was now seated at said bar, glancing around at a sea of lovely young ladies, watching Severus flirt with a ‘chick’ who could possibly even be _Draco’s_ daughter.

He turned with a huff, intending to order a refill of his Scotch, before his eyes caught on a flash of red and a swath of black lace covering a long, pale stretch of skin.

No, it couldn’t be her.

It was as if his every sense focused as his vision narrowed and his eyes honed in on the column of her neck, the graceful curve of her spine as she twisted away from her friend, another of those abominable _Weasleys_ , tossing a head full of brown ringlets over her shoulder. Her teeth sparkled white, her lips glistened like a rose, and for the life of him, Lucius found himself nearly unable to breathe.

He wasn’t sure which he desired more strongly- running his tongue down each little bump and ridge along her back, or watching those luxurious red lips wrap themselves around the head of his cock.

As a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol spread through his middle, Lucius found his lips pulling into their customary smirk, his entire posture lengthening until he was, once more, _the_ Lucius Malfoy. 

The man with pomp, the man with wit, the man who could charm the knickers off Minerva McGonagall herself.

He was not an old fool with a man tail. 

He was a _prize_.

And if Minerva couldn’t resist him, then he knew without a doubt that Hermione Granger wouldn’t, either. Not this time. 

Not anymore.

~*~

With a grunt she elbowed her way to the front of the bar. Finally, _finally_ front in line, Hermione wiped a sweaty curl from her brow and raised her hand to get the barkeep’s attention.

Bar _tender_ , not barkeep. She was in a muggle joint, after all. They’d struck out at the wizarding establishment, and when one of Ginny’s teammates suggested they traipse through muggle London, Hermione had felt distinctly wan about it until she set foot inside and felt the thrum of the bass and the heat of the people seep down into her soul. Perhaps she needed to venture out of the wizarding world more often. Reconnect with her roots, and all that. She _was_ the newly appointed Muggle Studies Professor, after all. 

This was research!

There now. She’d almost convinced herself she was not here to find a replacement Felix.

Or a replacement _him_.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she mumbled irritably, waving her hand higher and higher and higher. Why was it no one ever noticed when her hand was politely raised? Why was she always forced to raise it higher and higher and higher until her shoulder nearly popped from its socket?

She swore they made eye contact _twice_ , and yet he _still_ hadn’t approached her where she hung on the end of the bar and stuck her hand in the air like she was in class once more. 

Holy mother of Merlin. She needed bloody flags to wave to get the blind idiot’s attention. Streamers maybe. Perhaps even a full-on brass band. Was it too much to ask for a simple tumbler of Whiskey?

“Allow me.” 

Two words.

Two words, sliding through her riotous curls and slithering into her ear, sending a spark of fear down her spine and a traitorous spark of lust to sink her middle.

Two words, and Lucius _bloody_ Malfoy had reduced her to a quivering, speechless _wreck_ of a witch.

_Again._

Gods _damn_ that man and his ability to show up anytime she was indulging in a good time. Gods _damn_ his ability to leave her a _mess_ with barely more than a glance.

And what in the bloody hell of Hades was he doing in a _muggle bar?!_

She didn’t even need to peek over her shoulder, she could literally _feel_ it was him. Hovering behind her.

Heating up her back and sending sparks shooting over every last inch of her skin. 

They shared one ten-minute conversation at the Victory Ball in which she foolishly attempted to comfort him, and now every time she had a little alone time with Felix, she pictured being alone time with _him_.

She’d actually felt _bad_ for him when his wife paraded in on the arm of Charlie Weasley. Poor Mister Malfoy, she’d thought, her traitorous heart always pulling for the victim, even if the victim was _him_. 

That same traitorous heart had led her to approach him at the cabaret table, a matching tumbler of whiskey in hand, and like an _idiot_ she had laid a hand on his ridiculously muscled arm and attempted to distract him from the sight of his wife with a _Weasley_. Even _she_ knew how low that blow must have come.

So she’d placed a hand on his harm, summoned up her brightest smile, and told him that in less than a week Narcissa would surely coming running back, as she had it on good first-hand authority that Weasley’s weren’t really all that well-endowed.

She’d meant to make him smirk, or even sneer, whichever would chase that gloomy look from his handsome face.

She’d never meant to hear him bellow out a full-bodied laugh that sent a rush of heady pleasure all the way from the top of her frazzled hair to the tips of her high-heeled toes.

One silly little joke, and suddenly she was swept away on the Malfoy tide of charm, giggling and simpering and blushing like a silly little _fool_. 

Ye gods, she’d even leaned into the man for a _kiss_ before, thank heavens, _sense_ prevailed and she realized he was certainly not interested in ever being that close to a filthy little mudblood like her. Flushing crimson, she’d stuttered out some _horrid_ excuse about needing the loo, and flooed back to her flat immediately, not even sparring him one last glance.

Merlin, he was right behind her once more and she _still_ hadn’t summoned up the courage to look at the bloody man. Not that that stopped the tingles racing over her back and leaving touch-starved bumps on her skin in their wake. 

Betrayers, all of them, each and every last little one.

Hermione just stared at the toes of her pumps in hot embarrassment as he slid up to the bar beside her, because of _course_ the crowds parted in his wake. 

Because of _course_. The man probably had a bloody _spell_ for that kind of grace woven into his bloody shoes.

Very nice shoes, those. And very nice socks, too. That print was oddly adorable. The blue was simply stunning.

“My dear Miss Granger, do I need to be worried about whatever you find so fascinating on the floor of this- _fine_ establishment?”

Blanching, she finally darted a startled glance up from his feet to his face, slamming right into the traditional Malfoy smirk and imperious eyebrow.

Oh, that smirk and that eyebrow. Deadly weapons, those. Deadly weapons that almost led a silly little _mudblood_ like her into thinking it was appropriate to do something outrageous like _kiss him_ in the middle of a _ball_.

Those lips, practically screaming at her to sin. 

Those eyes, so warm they could melt the snow in the Arctic. Those were simply stunning, too.

Hermione licked her bottom lip and felt a flush spread over her face as his smirk grew wider and wider under her speechless perusal.

Merlin help her, but those eyes were so warm they were _hot_. They very nearly had sparks shooting out of them. Warm eyes, with sparks of mischief flying all about and playing havoc with her breathing. 

Mother of merlin, she was open-mouthed and _panting_ and Lucius _bloody_ Malfoy was just watching it all with warm, devilish, and dare she dream _delicious_ amusement.

Was she dreaming? Was she asleep? Oh, wouldn’t that just be horrid. Horrid and very likely what was happening right now. In ten seconds her eyes would pop open and she would bolt out of bed and in the direction of Felix like a maniacal woman until finally, finally, an embarrassingly short moment later she would find a sweet release. 

“The lady will have a Scotch on the rocks, two fingers, and I will as well.” 

Oh.

_Oh._

He remembered her drink.

He remembered her drink!

From the Ball!

Why would something so small and insignificant make literal tears prick the corner of her eyes?

Wait-

Dear sweet mother of Merlin, was this real? 

She pinched herself, and didn’t _that_ hurt like hell, but there was no denying it.

Lucius Malfoy was buying Hermione Jean Granger a _drink_.

In a _muggle bar._

She pinched herself again for good measure, and squeezed tighter and tighter when she despairingly realized she didn’t feel a gods-damned _thing_. 

It _was_ a dream, wasn’t it? But it felt so real? How could she dream an entire evening of primping? “Yes, dreams really do come true,” he murmured with a pointed glance at her still-pinching fingers on, oh dear lord that was _his_ arm now. 

Oh, sweet sweet Merlin. It wasn’t a dream at all. And she had pinched _Lucius Bloody Malfoy_.

With more grace than she could ever pray for in her entire _life_ he turned, plucked their drinks (drinks!) from the bar, and neatly placed one (hers!) in her hand. 

Drinks, yes.

She could do drinks. 

She could do drinks, with _Lucius Malfoy_ , in a _muggle bar_.

“You’re welcome, my _dear_ Miss Granger.” 

Hermione flamed with embarrassment and, before she could think it through, she quickly tossed the whole two fingers back in one go, slamming the glass on the wood top as she finished.

“So that’s the way this is going to go, hm? Not even a greeting? Not one word of thanks? My, how much I have to learn about dating in the modern era with a modern witch.”

Ugh, that man. How could he be so warm and so cruel and so scary and so sexy all at once? 

Dating?

Her mind halted as if she threw the emergency break at a hundred miles an hour.

Did _the_ Lucius Malfoy just imply he was trying to _date?_

_Her?_

And how _dare_ he rob her of the ability to speak. It was her greatest asset! Her truest gift!

She was gaping like a bloody _cod_ , and was sure her skin was so red she likely _glowed_ , and yet _she_ , Hermione Jean Granger, was being… _courted_ by a _Malfoy_? 

“Fine,” he said, with what looked like actual _regret._

Oh sweet heavens, she blew it this time. She couldn’t get a single word out, and was _finally_ about to explode with what would surely be the politest apology he’d ever had the fortune of being graced with, when he did the very last thing she expected.

He tossed back _his_ tumbler, licked his luscious lips, and stalked into her space with a glint, pressing up close until his chest met hers and his lips were inches from her own.

Oh dear lord, this was not happening.

She couldn’t possibly be misinterpreting him _again_ , could she?

Surely this wasn’t another repeat of the Victory Ball, with her an embarrassed mess and he a suave sophisticated _god_.

She tried to fight it, truly she did, the magnetic spell he was surely weaving around her, as she rose on her tip toes and her head tilted up and closer. She tried to hold on to every last reason why she shouldn’t possibly, _couldn’t_ possibly, kiss Lucius Malfoy in a muggle bar, but before she could gather even _one_ she felt the slide of his warm palm across her bare back, just at her waist.

The shudder that rocked through her made them _both_ gasp. 

“This can go one of two ways, my darling Miss Granger,” he murmured a breath away from her parted lips. “Either you choose to _think_ , or you choose to _feel_.”

Well, sod it all. 

Felix wasn’t all that great of a lover, anyways. He certainly hadn’t helped her get over, or _under_ , Lucius.

Lucius’s thumb danced over the bumps of her spine, one by one by one, and she realized that for the first time in her life, Hermione didn’t actually _want_ to speak or lead or think very much at all. 

So she didn’t. She sucked in a breath for courage, steeled her toes in her shoes for strength, straightened her spine, and lifted her eyes to his with the sultriest smile she could muster.

Thank the heavens she’d practiced that pose with Ginny for five hours the Saturday _after_ the Victory Ball. It seemed to have the desired effect. She didn’t miss the flash of triumph and the sparkle of his teeth as his lips pulled into a victorious grin. “Excellent.”

And didn’t that promising growl just send shivers all the way down to the tips of her toes?

~*~

Hermione felt the world tilt on its axis as he crashed his lips to hers. She was _drowning_ in sensation, alive and lit by _fire_ , overcome by an earthquake of _need_ as he kissed the very breath from her lungs and the heart from her soul. He overcame her and woke her up all at once, set her aflame and pulled her under a fog, as his tongue slid with hers and his hands roamed her body. 

It wasn’t until the backs of her knees bumped something solid that the fog lifted just a bit and she realized it was awfully quiet over the ringing of lust sounding in her ears. Hermione jerked her head back from his with alarm, peering around the bar-

Oh, Merlin.

It was awfully quiet because they were in fact no longer _in_ the very public muggle bar.

He had _apparated_ them straight to—his bedroom, apparently.

In _public_.

To his _bedroom_.

Fucking Felix, he’d never shown this much initiative in his entire existence.

She turned with a flash of outrage that promptly withered away to nothing at the twinkle in his eye and the shrug of his shoulders. “It is just a fine, Miss Granger. In fact, I would be willing to allow you to pin this whole thing on me, to avoid the strike against your character, if it would smooth your ruffled feathers and allow us to get back to more important matters”

She should have been horrified by that behavior. She should have started lecturing him into a frenzy about why wealth and privilege don’t just allow one to always do as one wishes.

She probably should not have been climbing him like a tree, with her lips pressed to his and her legs around his waist and her fingers freeing his beautiful blond hair from his constraints. 

What on earth had possessed him to tie them back in that ridiculous band to begin with? It should be a crime to tie all that gorgeous hair back with elastic. She was just about to mention it, too, until he nipped on her neck and she nearly keened with _need_.

 _She._ Hermione Jean Granger. _Keening_ for Lucius _Bloody_ Malfoy.

He had one fist full of her unruly chestnut curls and another palming her backside as he thrust something deliciously hard against where she was wet and aching, and Hermione forgot every last reason she had left to worry about the fact that she was alone with Lucius Malfoy and practically dragging him to his own bed.

He kissed his way from her lips to her chin before dragging his lips and teeth over her neck, finding every last spot that made her shiver and pant and nearly _beg_ until all she could do was grip him tighter and moan. His teeth made contact with that secret little place just below her collar bone, and she squeezed him so hard she swore she heard him grunt. 

“So, the little witch likes to play a little rough, hm?” He rasped into her ear.

Oh, _yes_. 

_Yes_. The little witch most certainly _does._

And she had no idea until she met _you._


	3. Part III

She was dying. 

It was the only explanation. She was dying, under torture perhaps, and her mind was giving her the greatest lustful gift of her entire life. 

She had to be dying, and her mind’s parting gift was the feeling of Lucius Malfoy’s teeth nipping the shell of her ear while his fingers twisted tight on the nipple they’d captured through the too many layers of fabric between them.

She _had better_ be dying. Because Merlin save her soul if she was supposed to live a normal life after _this_.

Hermione wriggled her hips impatiently against Lucius’s solid torso while his fingers twisted tighter, and with a buck of impatience landed a solid kick on his back with her heel. She needed _more_ , and she needed it _now_ , and she needed it _quick_ before she was finished.

He grunted when her heel dug into his back, and after a sharp nip of annoyance on the tender column of her neck, he pulled back a shade to pierce her with a glare. 

“Now, now, Miss Granger. A lack of patience does not allow for a lack of manners.”

That arrogant peacock.

With a huff of annoyance she arched and wriggled her hips once more, desperate for friction. 

All it got her was a smirk, and another tweak of her still-too-clothed nipple. 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. He knew what she wanted, surely. He didn’t need the words. 

She raised her eyebrows with a pointed look and shifted suggestively against him. All it earned her was the very tip of his tongue lightly flicking out to swipe her lower lip.

He _knew_. Of course he knew. He was Lucius bloody Malfoy.

He _knew_ he had the upper hand while she was about two shallow nipple-twists away from begging.

He _knew_ , but, being Lucius _sodding_ Malfoy, knowledge was not enough. He wanted to make her beg.

Well, fuck him and fuck _that_. She was not some pureblood witch who tittered, simpered, cowed and bowed to his wishes.

She was Hermione Jean Granger! Member (some would say most important member!) of the Golden Trio!

She was a witch who knew what she wanted, and she would most certainly demand she be treated with – “Ohh,” she sighed, arching her back and pushing her chest up as he teasingly nipped at her lower lip in the same spot he’d licked moments before.

That fucking did it.

“Fuck your manners, Malfoy. _Fuck_ your _bloody_ manners, and you _bloody_ teasing, and your _bloody_ mocking, and show me what you’ve _bloody_ got,” she growled, wiggling a little more forcefully against him than she’d intended. 

The immediate shift in his demeanor sent a shiver of alarm scurrying down her spine, and it dimly occurred to her that this was not a curse or a fiction her mind created at all. 

His back lengthened, his shoulders broadened, and his eyes very nearly shifted to black they were so dark. She would have mistaken the clench in his jaw for anger, except she felt something deliciously solid pulse even larger against where she was wrapped around his middle. It hit her with a dizzying wave of sensation what it was she was witnessing, as he slowly wrapped a handful of curls tight around his fist, while his other hand slid slowly up her thigh to tightly palm her behind.

It was a fissure in the veneer of his indomitable control.

_She_ , Hermione Jean Granger, had actually wormed her way under his skin and popped that mask of disdain he always wore clear off its hinges.

She probably should have been terrified, given the circumstances. She was alone, with _the_ Lucius Malfoy, in his home, somewhat restrained, and most undoubtedly at his mercy.

She was inspired.

As he tipped her head back to bare her throat and thumbed barely-there caresses over the flesh cradled in the palm of his hand, she truly couldn’t help herself, and let her desire override that wit she was so famous for.

Why give two figs for wit, when she could feel those fingers instead?

~*~

Lucius ground his teeth as he slowly tipped her head back further and took the last step towards his bed. The fiery vixen wrapped around him was the most delightful surprise he had perhaps ever encountered in a bed chamber, and she was very likely going to be the death of him. 

She was responsive, and demanding, and so overwhelmed by the pleasures he provided she seemed to lose every last inhibition and let herself go.

Or so he thought.

Until she blinked, and swept her tongue over her bottom lip, and he watched her whisper a phrase he couldn’t quite catch as he felt her wrist flicked over his back.

He might have thought the little minx had blinded him, with the way his vision narrowed. He could hardly see past his own lust, as he felt every last article of clothing she had on disappear between his fingers until he was met with only skin.

Well, nearly every last article, he realized with a bolt of heat as his eyes finally caught up to the display of smooth creamy flesh beneath his roaming fingers.

She was still wearing the shoes.

He felt his lip pull up in a snarl as he squeezed her thick bottom. “I had looked forward to undressing you, you little harlot,” he growled, swelling as he watched her eyes nearly glow. 

“You were taking too long,” she snarled in response, head tugging forward despite his firm hold until she could nip his own lip. 

He felt his lips tug into grin, and was past the point of worrying whether it bordered a little too close to feral. “Well now, my darling Miss Granger. I shouldn’t dare to keep you waiting.”

He opened his arms and let her tumble onto the bed while still keeping a firm grip on her hair, knowing the mixture of pain and surprise would heighten her pleasure. He didn’t need to murmur the spell as she had, he simply thought it and his clothes vanished as well, while he stepped forward to kneel in front of her on the bed. 

“This is what you want, yes?” He lifted his brow even as he puffed his chest in pride, watching her hazy doe eyes sweep over his chest, past his flat middle, to what he was blessed with. 

He saw her throat work, watched her lips part for her tongue to sweep out, and it took every last sinew of self-control he had left to force himself to remain still and not pounce right then and there.

~*~

She was overwhelmed and out of her depth, careening head-first on a tidal wave of pleasure towards its crest, as she dragged her eyes over every long line of muscle in his chest and abdomen.

And, not to mention, his _member_. 

He put poor Felix to shame.

She was actually a tiny bit intimidated, and did not for the life of her understand why she, Hermione Jean Granger, was fortunate enough to be placed in this bed with this wizard. 

She felt his twitch of annoyance down into her bones when he tugged on her scalp and raised his eyebrow. 

Oh, Merlin. How could he ask her to speak at a time like this?

“I- what?” She breathed, eyes still roaming up and down his chest, over and around every inch of skin he now had on display.

~*~

He nearly jerked her head in impatience, but simply lightly tugged.

_Forcefully_.

“ _Miss Granger_ ,” he ground out through clenched teeth, his control at this point tenuous at best. 

Thankfully, she flicked her gaze to meet his, and noticed.

“Oh, yes, Lucius _plea_ -“ the rest of her cry was captured in his mouth as he crushed his lips to hers and dropped his frame to cover her whole.

She tasted divine, something earthy and feminine and wholly unsettling, as her tongue battled his and her delicate fingers danced over his shoulders, skated down his spine, and traced over the curves of his bottom. She was insatiable and wild, and pushed him past the brink, until without a second thought for the consequences he threaded a hand once more through her hair and _pulled_ , lifting her bodily until she scrambled onto her knees and followed her head on the path he was leading it, until she was faced towards the headboard, back to his chest and head tipped back on his shoulder.

He didn’t consider for one moment that perhaps he should gentle his approach their first time, it never even registered, he simply gasped in a breath at the feeling of those curves and that wild hair and her wild moan, and purely _thrust_.

~*~

Hermione cried out in alarm and pleasure at the feeling of him thrusting up and into her. It was so sudden and so unexpectedly filling and delicious she very nearly couldn’t even find the space to breathe, as his forearm clamped tight on the side of her head, his hand remained fisted in her hair, and his other arm wrapped around her middle to hold her tight while he simply thrust and thrust and thrust.

Her mind raced as tingles of heat raced over her arms and legs and conjoined at the aching heat in her middle. She was, quite literally, in the throes of being fucked senseless, by Lucius _sodding_ Malfoy.

Who would bloody believe it?

She was so overwhelmed with the pleasure, and so wound tight with the slight tinge of pain, that she couldn’t even get her mind to a point where she could simply feel, follow the build, and maybe even find her own release beside him.

Well, in front of him, not that semantics mattered at a time like this.

Sweet mother of Merlin, she was stuck in her bloody head, her thoughts a jumble tumbling one after another, and she could very nearly cry with frustration because it felt so marvelous and right and thick and full and she just couldn’t quite let go and-

“More,” she gasped, throat raw and ragged, her greedy hands coming up to claw along his forearms. “I need more, Lucius, _please_.”

She would beg, sweet _Merlin_ she would beg, if only he would somehow know what she needed so that she could feel more and think less and finally, oh _finally_ , find the release she so desperately _craved_.

The arm that was around her middle swept up on a thrust to cross tight over her chest, and she was so startled by the gentle hand delicately wrapping around her throat all thoughts slammed to a halt. 

“Breathe, Hermione,” he whispered into her ear, his hips still pumping up into her, while each of his fingers lightly flexed along the column of her throat. 

She sucked in her breath with a gasp just before his fingers all settled to lightly press into her neck, his fist lovingly squeezing just a bit, just enough to take the edge off, just enough for her to lose focus and _then_ -

Hermione screamed, her entire gaze going first blinding white then utterly black, as her legs clamped so hard she cramped in the calves and her entire lower body buckled down and _squeezed_. Her skin flushed hot as all blood rushed south, and she came so hard she very nearly hurt with the pleasure of it. She was _floating, soaring,_ undone and unwound and all those other clichés she’d only ever read about in novels and felt barely a fraction of with Ronald of Felix.

She was a woman sated, a woman captivated, a woman currently melting into a puddle of pleasurable jelly while the wizard who made her that way thrust three more times and then pulsed hard inside her.

She felt him shudder behind her with the force his release, and noted with savage satisfaction that he groaned her name as he bit her shoulder and spent himself inside her. 

~*~

What in Merlin’s name had he been thinking? 

What sort of gentleman would behave in that manner, the very first time he laid with a witch? 

He had never even acted that way with Narcissa, only reserving that treatment for some of the seedier ladies he’d bedded, the ones who hadn’t even known or cared it was him to begin with.

He had _never_ closed his hand around the throat of a lovely, lustful young witch and fucked her into oblivion.

Lucius realized his hand was _still_ lightly clasped around Hermione’s throat and snapped it down to his side, while gingerly untangling his other first from her riotous hair.

Well, best get on with it. He was a Malfoy, and he would face the consequences of his actions with dignity, and perhaps even attempt some form of grace. Perhaps she needed comfort? She was still lightly shivering, quivers setting her skin alive as she reclined back into his chest. 

And just _how_ did one comfort a young lady whom one fucked so hard one saw stars?

His sluggish mind attempted to stutter to a start, yet as she always did, before he had a chance to ponder, Hermione completely disarmed him.

She flopped down onto his duvet with the purr of a kitten, tossed an arm over her eyes and reached out blindly in his direction until her slim fingers slid into his. “Come on, Lusciouuuuusoh! I mean, ahem, Lucius! Lucius. Come. Here, I mean. Um, come here. If you please. As this is your bed. Please.” The arm lifted and she shot him a startled glance while the tugging ceased. He couldn’t help himself, as he felt his smirk spread into a full smile. “May _I_ come? I mean. Well, that is to say. May I lay? Oh dear. I—ahem, it has perhaps been awhile, and, um, that is to say-“

So she thought him luscious? In light of such circumstances, he could afford to be magnanimous.

“My delightful Miss Granger,” he purred, flicking his wrist towards his wardrobe with a flash of inspiration. “In my bed, where you are most certainly welcome, you may come as often as you wish.”

He wolfishly watched the blush spread from the tips of her cheeks, down across her graceful neck, all the way to the tips of her pointed nipples. He would need to trace that delightful trail with his tongue later. 

A bundle of flannel cruelly covered the skin he had been admiring, and for one moment he nearly regretted his charitable idea until she lit up with a smile so bright and joyous it actually pained his chest.

He had _never_ been smiled at with such abandon before.

He felt a warm sensation that pushed uncomfortably past lust sweep through his middle as he watched her bolt out of bed to dress in the borrowed loungewear. From the corner of his eye, he observed her as she kicked off her heels and peered around his chamber with a giggle while he stood and tugged on his own flannel pants. When she bounced back onto his bed with a laugh and a tumble of curls he felt that pain squeeze and squeeze until he nearly couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t help but reach up to rub it away absently.

He lay back down to recline with one arm propped behind his head, and caught sight of her, tapping her wand to tighten his pants, her small frame swallowed in the silk of the dress shirt she’d slipped on, the one he’d worn this evening.

He was fond of her, and it filled him with despair.

A one-time tumble with the delightful Miss Granger was not even close to being enough.


End file.
